Dry Stone Walls, page 1
A Dagger Book
Dry Stone Walls© 2015 by Robert J. Randisi
The Housesitting Detective Series
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Cover by Scott Carpenter
Digital ISBN 9781626012028
Print ISBN 9781626012035
First Edition June 2015
To Marthayn,
when you came into my life you knocked down all my Walls.
ONE
When Tru Lewis first saw the man building the wall he was intrigued.
He was walking a path in Bluegrass Country where he was housesitting. Part of the reason he’d taken the job in Kentucky was because the area was peppered with walking paths that would take him through countless fields and pastures. Some people called them hiking paths, but he didn’t hike.
He walked.
This was his third day and he’d already noticed many dry walls that bordered the fields and roads. They were the kinds of walls he thought he’d only see if he were walking in Yorkshire, in England.
This was the first time he’d actually encountered someone who was working on one.
“Good-morning,” he called.
The man looked up. He had a face that some had to have been chiseled from stone. His age could have been anywhere between 50 and 80.
“What’s that?”
“I said good-morning.”
“Oh,” the man said. “Yeah, ’mornin’.”
“What are you doing?” Tru asked.
The man looked at him again.
“I mean, I know you’re building a wall, but…I’ve always wondered how this is done.”
The man stood up straight and looked at Tru—really looked at him for the first time.
“Are you really interested?” he asked. “Because this is kind of a lost art. Ain’t nobody interested, anymore.”
“I am.”
The man squinted at him.
“What’s your name?”
“Truxton Lewis.”
“Say wha—Lewis what?”
“Truxton,” Tru said.
“What the hell kinda name is that?” the old man asked.
“My parents named me after a highway sign they saw,” Tru said. “It was the name of a town.”
The old man thought that over, then shrugged. “I guess that’s as good a way as any to get a name.”
“So what’s yours?” Tru asked.
“Beasley,” the old man said. “Max Beasley.” He waved. “You come on down here and I’ll give ya an idea of what I’m doin’.”
***
Truxton Lewis retired from the New York City Police Department as a Captain of Detectives after thirty years. Still a young man—only 60—he wondered what to do with himself every day.
“Why don’t you do like they do in books?” his daughter suggested.
“What’s that?”
“Ex-cops, they’re always becoming private eyes. On T.V., too.”
His daughter, Caroline, was in her mid-thirties, married for fifteen years. She had given Tru Lewis one grandson, so far, David. She’d also given him one son-in-law who he’d named, privately, “asshole.”
“That would be cool, Grandpa,” David said.
“Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?’
“This is real life,” Tru told his grandson and daughter, “not a book or a t.v. show.”
***
Tru’s wife, Ellen, had died of cancer five years earlier. The joy went out of his life with her. He muddled through his job for five more years, but then put in his papers. Initially, he was going to keep the house in Queens, but in the end he decided to sell it. His daughter wanted him to come and live with her, but to his son-in-law’s obvious relief, Tru turned down the generous offer.
“But, what are you going to do?”
“Travel,” he said. “That was what your mother wanted to do.”
“You don’t have any money saved,” she said. “Can you afford that on your pension? Europe is so expensive.”
“Not Europe,” he said. “The United States.”
“It’s still expensive,” she said. “If you want to buy one of those big trailers —“
“It won’t be so expensive,” he assured her, “not the way I intend to do it.”
“And how’s that, Dad?”
“Housesitting.”
“What?”
“I’m going to housesit my way across the country,” he said. “There are people all over who are traveling, who don’t want to leave their houses empty. They let people live there, free, as long as they take care of the house.”
“For free?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know about this?”
“I saw a report on Sixty Minutes, one time. Then I researched it on the computer.”
“You?” she asked, surprised. “On a computer? Yo0u hate computers?”
“David helped me,” Tru said. “In fact, he’s the one who suggested I put a listing on line.”
“A listing?”
“Yes. ‘Mature Male Available for Housesitting, Non-Smoker, No Pets, Widower.’”
“You’re advertising the fact that you’re a widower?”
“It was David’s idea,” he said. “Let’s people know that I’ll be alone. He’s a smart boy.”
“Too smart,” she said. “Conspiring against me with my own father.”
“Nobody’s conspiring, honey,” Tru said. “This is just something I want to do.”
“And in between housesitting jobs? Where will you stay?”
“I’ll find a place.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know,” he said.
“You don’t have it planned out?”
“Caroline,” he told her, “it’s more exciting this way, don’t you think?”
“No,” she said, “I don’t. I think it’s crazy. You’re too old to go traipsing around the country alone —“
“— that’s enough!” he told her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, contritely. “I didn’t mean to say that.”
“I’ve made up my mind,” he said.
“B-but…when will we see you?”
“I’ll come back from time to time,” he said, “and maybe David could even come with me once in a while. He’d like that, wouldn’t he?”
“Of course he would,” she said. “He loves spending time with his grandpa. And actually, that’s not a bad idea.”
And so it was settled.
TWO
It took a few months to get himself set up in business. He got a few jobs right away, then used those as references to get more. Before long, he had his year planned out. Two weeks here, three weeks there. Never less than a week, never more than a month.
And this month, two years after his retirement, he was in Kentucky.
***
The house was a one story log cabin on 19 acres of land, with 3 bedrooms and hardwood floors. It was in Bluegrass Country, which Tru knew was horse country, but he had no idea about the “rock fences,” until he started walking.
On day one he went through his ritual of getting to know the house. He found the key where it was promised, let himself in and put his bags down, just inside the door. Then he walked the entire house, looking in bedrooms and the kitchen, checking the fridge—well-stocked, as promised—and the dining room, finally the living room. Looking out the front window, the view was breathtaking, rolling hills and trees. He picked his bags up and carried them to the master bedroom, which was his choice.
On the dining room table was a note from the owners—a couple about his age, who were traveling in Europe—simply welcoming him and confirming their arrangement. All he needed to do was look after the house, and make sure it was still there when they returned.
He had taken a cab from Blue Grass Airport, because the couple had promised him there’d be a car in the garage. He used the door from the kitchen to enter and found a late model Toyota. Later, he’d take a ride around the area, see where there might be a few restaurants and maybe a market.
But day one was mostly spent in the house, getting comfortable, learning where the fuse box was, the thermostat, finding the plants that needed watering. It was Fall, so he didn’t expect to need the heat or air-conditioning very much. Surfing the 26-inch flat screen in the living room, he learned what he’d be able to get on their dish—most of his watching was news or history programs—and in the kitchen he familiarized himself with the stove and microwave.
***
Day two he took the car out and drove the area, finding the nearby Kentucky Lake, the little town of Hennessy, two small cafes and a little grocery store.
During the drive he noticed some of the stone walls along the road, but only in passing. It wasn’t until he was walking on day four that he took special notice of them. When he got back to the house he used the laptop, on the desk in the bedroom, to research them, and discovered what a huge part of Kentucky the dry rock walls truly were. There wasn’t another area of the country that had as many.
It was on day five, while walking, that he came upon a man actually erecting or repa iring one of those walls. He stopped to watch, amazed at how the man got the stones to balance without using any mortar between them. What also surprised him was the age of the man doing the work, and the fact that he was doing it alone.
That was when, he’d introduced himself…
***
For two days he came and watched as the man stacked the rocks, building the wall up. They were dry stones, he explained, no mortar between them. The stones had to be balanced just right for the wall to stand, and stand firmly. The stones had to be the right kind, size and shape.
Max Beasley explained that throughout Kentucky what he was building were usually referred to as “rock fences.” He was one of the last of the dry wallers left in the state—maybe in the country—although an organization called The Dry Stone Conservancy was trying to rescue the dying art.
By the third day after their meeting Max had Tru assisting him, and the ex-cop turned housesitter was thoroughly enjoying the work, as well as the older man’s company.
One of the things he had discovered was that Max was eighty-two years old, which made what he was doing even more remarkable. Granted, each individual stone did not weighh a great deal, but you had to lift so many of them, one after the other, and stack them, which took a lot of stamina. Tru was only assisting, but he had to stop from time to time to rest, and he was only sixty-two.
That was one other thing he enjoyed about working with the older man; he was able to think of himself as “only” sixty-two.
He was not getting as much rest as he thought he might with this Kentucky job, but he found he was getting much more enjoyment from the work then he would have from the rest.
THREE
One of the cafes in Hennessy served breakfast and lunch—open at 8 a.m., closed by 2 p.m.—the other one did lunch and dinner—open at 2 pm., closed by 6 p.m. There was no late dining in this town, unless you did it in your own kitchen.
The place was called J.C.’s Café, and during his first week of housesitting he had eaten breakfast there three times. When he walked in for the fourth time the waitress greeted him like he was not a native, but at least some kind of regular. It was a cliché —but in a good way—with checkerboard table clothes and bare wood floors.
“Well, there he is,” she said, coming over to his table with her pad and pencil ready. She was a faded blonde in her fifties with a pleasant face, and a few extra pounds that seemed just right. “What’s it gonna be this mornin’, handsome?”
“Corned beef hash and eggs, Milly, and white toast,” he said, remembering her name.
“Coffee and juice?”
“You bet.”
She put in his order, then brought his coffee and juice.
“Now, I know you ain’t from these parts,” she said, “but this is damned near the third or fourth time in here.”
“Fourth.”
“Where you from?”
“New York City.”
“That so? Ain’t never been, myself. What would a feller from New York City be doin’ here?”
“Housesitting.”
“That so? Whereabouts?”
“Do you know the Witts?” he asked.
“Sure do, Bertha and Joe. You in their house? Of shoot, they up and took that trip to Europe they’re always talkin’ about, didn’t they?”
“They did.”
“Well, good fer them,” she said. They heard a bell ring and she said, “That’s your breakfast.”
She hurried back to the kitchen and came out with his plates, then refilled his coffee.
She left him alone to eat. As usual the other people in the place turned their heads to look at him every once in a while, probably wondering who he was. He wondered how many times he’d have to come in before they accepted him—if ever?
Milly came over to refill his coffee, drop off his check and asked, “So what’ve you been doin’ with yerself around here?”
“Just relaxing, taking walks, breathing the clean air, looking at the horses, admiring the rock fences—oh, and I met a man who builds them. He’s working on one right now, and he’s letting me help him.”
“Is that a fact?” she asked. “That’d be ol’ Max, right?”
“That’s right.”
“And he talked to you?”
“He did.”
“Max don’t talk to many people,” she said, “and he sure as hell don’t let nobody touch his walls. You must be pretty special.”
“Well, don’t we all like to think we’re special?” he asked.
She got called away to another table at that point, which suited him. If she was going to start talking to him while he ate. He’d have to make his own breakfast at the house.
He left the money for breakfast on the table and got away before she could collar him again.
FOUR
On day four of their lessons—day nine of Tru’s stay—Max wasn’t there.
On top of that, a section of the wall they had just finished the day before had either fallen or been knocked down.
He walked in among the fallen stones, looked around, didn’t see any reason why it had fallen.
He had not seen or spoken to Max anywhere but the rock site, but the old man had told him where he lived, so Tru decided to go to his house and see if the old man had taken ill.
***
Both Tru’s log cabin and Max’s house were outside the small town of Hennessy, between Lexington and Richmond, near Nicholasville.
The site of the wall they were building was situated between the house and cabin, so it was no hardship for Tru to walk there.
Following Max’s casual directions he managed to locate a cottage he thought was the right one, sitting alone on a hill overlooking a large field of Kentucky blue grass, where a couple of horses grazed.
He approached the thick oak door and pounded on it with his fist, since there was no knocker. There was no car anywhere within sight, but there was an old fashioned, weather-beaten and faded blue bicycle leaning against the wall.
Tru knew that once Max had arranged to have his stones delivered to his site, he rode his bike back and forth every day, his tools in a pack on his back. It was an ancient thing, only one speed with the braks in the pedals, the kind of bike Tru himself rode as a kid before multi-speed bikes with the braks on the handles were introduced.
He banged on the door again, deciding to try just once more before walking around the back, or trying to see in a window.
The door was opened abruptly and a handsome woman in her fifties appeared, holding a cell phone to her ear. She held up one finger to Tru, begging his indulgence for however long the call would last.
“No, I don’t know anyone locally. We’ve only lived here a short time…My father hasn’t got many friends, and he doesn’t get into trouble...Yes, yes, of course I know this qualifies as trouble…I don’t appreciate your tone, sir…sir? Hello? Hello?” She took the phone down from her ear, stared at it as if it were something putrid. “Damn it!” She swore.
“Sounds like trouble,” he said, for want of another ice breaker. He really just wanted to remind her that he was there.
“What?” She looked at him as if she had forgotten his presence.
“You must be Julie,” he said. Max had told him about his widowed daughter, with whom he lived. The old man said she was on the sunny side of 60, but didn’t have a very sunny disposition.
“Her husband died when she was almost fifty, and she hasn’t had much to be happy about since,” he explained. “Plus the prospect of turnin’ sixty don’t sit well with her.”
True to her father’s word, the woman did have a sour expression.
“How do you know my name?” she asked. “Do we know each other?”
“No, we don’t, but I do know your father, Max,” Tru said. “Actually, I’ve been helping him this week with his wall—“
“You’re—what did he say? Lewis?” She frowned, trying to remember, snapping her fingers. “It’s an odd first name…”
“Truxton,” he said, “but you can call me Tru.”
“Tru.” She said the name as if tasting it. Her face relaxed for just a moment, and he saw a more attractive woman.
